


Careful Who You Invite

by HazelDomain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Dean, Daddy Issues, Drugged Sex, I don't think this counts as daddy kink, Incest, M/M, Rape Aftermath, Top John, Unconscious Sex, another day another fic about dean getting raped, magic submissiveness sigils
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 08:26:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6510439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HazelDomain/pseuds/HazelDomain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are things he can't remember. Thought processes that can't quite pan out. And he's not sure, but he thinks he might be waking up with bruises he didn't have the night before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Careful Who You Invite

 

 

Ultimately, the solution to the case was EVP.

 

Or the suspicion of EVP, since there wasn’t a ghost, he wasn’t looking for a ghost, it had never _been_ a ghost-

 

Back up.

 

Dean shook his head. It got fuzzy when he tried to analyze it too closely, so he’d thought it was a curse at first. And then he’d found he couldn’t tell his dad about the lapses in memory or the way thoughts seemed to slide right out of his mind-

 

He’d tried once, using a collection of obscure anecdotes and half-baked metaphors while John’s expression got darker and darker. Eventually he concluded that his son was a fucking idiot, and told him to go to bed before he hurt himself.

Dean had complied, stripping off his clothes (when had he started sleeping in his boxers? He couldn’t remember) and staring at the patched plaster ceiling until he’d fallen asleep.

 

As close as Dean could figure, it started just after Sammy left, but he couldn’t be sure because a lot of shit started going wrong right about then. A lot of it was Dean’s own fault. He’d get caught up thinking about Sam and then he’d miss things, drop the ball, and his Dad would give him one in the kidneys to help remind him to _quit fucking up._

 

Dean had been a hunter since he was twelve, and like most people who did manual labor, he wasn’t in the habit of keeping track of every scrape and boo-boo.

 

But at some point, he’s pretty sure, he started waking up with injuries he hadn’t had the night before. Bruises. Weird tender spots. One morning he wakes up completely hoarse and downs half a pot of lukewarm coffee while completely failing to mention to his father that it feels like someone choked him.

Which was ridiculous, anyway. Like someone snuck into their hotel room, passed John, climbed onto Dean’s bed ( _straddled his hips and held him down he can’t move why can’t he move_ ) and choked him unconscious before getting up and sneaking back out again?

It doesn’t make sense.

 

Dean sees the bruises when he goes to shower, dark fingerprints encircling his throat.

It still doesn’t make sense.

 

He doesn’t say anything to his father, but John notices anyway. Says he probably wrapped himself up in his blankets and choked himself. Says it’s a miracle he survived infancy. Dean doesn’t respond. He has no retort and talking hurts anyway.

 

John’s taking an extra long shower when it occurs to Dean that he hasn’t jerked off in weeks. Maybe longer. He tries to remember, but that seems to be another one of those thoughts he can’t seem to get a solid grasp on. Growing up with three men to a room, Dean’s gotten used to scheduling and planning his self-care sessions, so he can say with some certainty it’s been a while.

He’s probably just tired.  

 

Two months later, Dean still hasn’t gotten the urge. It’s gone from a passing curiosity to a sign of a serious problem, after all, he’s twenty six years old, and sure, he’s probably wearing out faster than most guys his age, but there should still be _some_ gas left in the tank, right? He thinks about asking Anna Nicole out, that old chestnut, buried in the bottom of his duffel since god knows when. She’s always been dependable, but he’s barely picked the bag up off the ground when he gets a weird sick feeling and decides maybe it can wait.

 

Fake it ‘till you make it.

If Dean’s life can be boiled down to any one motto, that would probably be it. So what if he isn’t getting random hard-ons at night anymore? So what if spring came and went and he never noticed the sundresses blooming or the shorts getting shorter? He’s a professional, he’s got work to do. Probably about time he learned to focus, anyway.

He’s a perfectly healthy, virile young man, and he’s completely capable of whacking off in the shower.

He makes himself do it, always lackluster and vaguely nauseating, but at least he knows the plumbing all works and he’s wired up right.

 

After two weeks of laborious wanking sessions, something twinges and he realizes there are teeth marks on the inside of his thigh.

He panics, trying to remember the last time they’d fought a vampire, a werewolf, anything transmissible by bite. It’s been weeks, and these weren’t there the day before. He’s sure of it.

He probes them gingerly with his fingers, wincing at the sting. They’re fresh- he’s stitched himself up often enough to know how it feels. The skin around the lacerations is just starting to bruise. This happened recently- sixteen hours at the most.

He takes a quick measurement with his fingers. Too narrow for a werewolf. He probes at the incisors- it stings, but they aren’t deep enough to indicate a vampire.

 

That’s when he starts thinking witch. Or ghost.

A stupid idea’s only stupid if it’s wrong. It’s stupid to think that there’s a creature sneaking into their room (room after room, across the country, for _months_ ) walking right past John and going for Dean (always Dean) but the evidence is right there on his broken, bruising skin.

 

He opens his mouth to tell John and nothing comes out. His father glances up from his newspaper, sees his eldest sitting across from him with his jaw slack like a fucking baby bird.

“Moron,” John mutters, and goes back to the obituaries.

 

Dean wakes up with another bite mark, this one on his chest. He stands in the bathroom looking at it for a long time, because this one’s still bleeding, and that means it’s only a few hours old. Maybe less. After that he leaves the voice recorder running overnight.

 

He’s intending to run it through a couple filters, see if there’s anything on it which would indicate paranormal activity, but he’s barely gotten it into the computer before he realizes he doesn’t have to.

He can hear a voice, deep and muffled, and then he hears himself. He’s saying no. He’s begging.

There’s a thump and a groan and then he doesn’t say anything else.

Dean’s fingers skim over the bruise on his ribs. He’s had it since the black dog in Omaha. He’s sure of it. Pretty sure.

 

The door opens and Dean shuts the laptop with a _smack,_ staring wide-eyed at his father, silhouetted by the July sunlight. It’s not that he’s hiding the recording. He’s long since figured out that the curse, or the haunting, or whatever, won’t let him talk about it.

And another little part of his mind doesn’t want his father to hear. His voice on the tape is too broken. He’s begging like a little bitch and he doesn’t want his father to hear.

John takes one look at his son’s I-wasn’t-doing-anything expression and rolls his eyes.

“When you’re done jerking off to boy bands, we have a widow to interview.”

 

It’s four days before Dean gets the courage to leave his webcam running. He wakes up with fingerprint bruises on his hips and he’s starting to get a really sick feeling about what exactly this haunting entails.

 

EVP is harder to catch on camera than on tape, because cameras tend to fuzz over and lose the picture entirely.

It doesn’t matter in this case, because there’s no EVP.

He’s watched it four times, just to be sure. Back and forward, looking for a flicker or an apparition or a stray lens flare or _something_ but there’s nothing there.

He watches himself start the camera and crawl into bed. He watches himself falling asleep while his father finishes off the last of a fifth.

His father leaves the frame and comes back with a pair of thick leather shackles, which he fastens around his son’s wrists. Dean watches himself wake, and struggle, but his arms are forced above his head and his father slaps him.

Dean watches understanding dawn on his own face as his father opens a small vial and begins painting a sigil on Dean’s bare abdomen. On the screen, John is straddling his hips, holding him down, and he can’t move. Dean is bucking up into him, twisting away, but it’s useless and he’s just tiring himself out. Tears begin to run down his face as John completes the sigil and his hands trail down his son’s body.

Dean’s been sleeping in his boxers (when did he start doing that? When Sammy left?) and it doesn’t take John long to strip them off, leaving Dean naked, squirming weakly under the effect of the sigil. The light is beginning to fade from his eyes.

Dean hears his own voice pleading, begging, but it just seems to spur John on more. He takes Dean’s chin in his hand, forcing the younger man to look up at him.

“Don’t give me that shit. We both know why we’re here. Suck.”

John’s fingers push into his mouth and Dean watches himself twist away, trying to spit them out.

“That’s how you want it? Fine. Have none then. Probably still wet from earlier, anyway.”

Dean and his digital counterpart make identical confused faces, but John only chuckles. He forces his son’s thighs apart, settling between them.

Dean can’t see what he’s doing, but the pained noises on the recording tell him all he needs to know. His father leans in, and the audio is crackly as he murmurs in Dean’s ear.

“You think I didn’t see you at the bar tonight? Flirting with that little queer you were pretending to hustle? Think I didn’t see you bent over that table like a god-damn open invitation?”

Dean’s sobs had dissolved into a weak panting, and his eyes were losing focus.

“How many times I gotta tell you, be careful who you invite.”

On the screen, Dean’s eyes slipped shut and his body went limp.

Fourteen hours later, sitting in a ratty motel chair five feet away, he watches as his father leans over him, pushing his naked thighs apart and burying himself inside Dean’s ass. Dean watches as his father fucked him, hurried and sloppy.

“Fuck yeah,” John groans, then breaks into a chorus of “take it, take it, take it” that lasts until he comes inside and Dean bolts for the bathroom to puke.  

 

Dean deletes the video.

 

He doesn’t say anything to his father.

 

John passes him a fistful of iron rounds. Their hands brush and Dean jerks back so hard he drops them. John slaps him.

 

Dean says he’s sick. Asks if John can do it. John says he’s out of practice. Says Dean looks more trustworthy. Says he plays dumb better.

Dean approaches the men at the pool table, and he knows his easy smile doesn’t look quite right. He passes it off as inebriation and tries to keep his back straight when he shoots.

He doesn’t do well.

The next morning he wakes up with a fresh set of bruises between his shoulders.

 

He starts taking recordings again.

 

He watches, again and again, as his father opens the vial and traces the sigil onto his skin. He watches himself fall unconscious and he watches John rape him.

He watches John finish and replace his boxers and pull the blanket over his body and kiss him goodnight.

He watches himself struggling as John flips him onto his stomach and holds his face down into the pillow. He watches himself thrashing desperately, eventually passing out. He’s suffocated before. He’s glad he can’t remember.

Sometimes John hits him first. Sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes he gives advice he knows his son won’t remember.

Dean wakes up with a sore throat and he sits in front of the laptop for a long time, blanket around his shoulders, coffee getting cold in his hands.

He eventually presses play and watches his father haul him up by the hair, pinching his cheeks together and telling him how _pretty-_

He slams the laptop shut.

Then he opens it again and deletes the video.

He’s dressed and packed by the time John comes back.

“I wanna get the fuck out of his room,” is all he says.

 

He spends August trying to tell Sam.

He doesn’t know what else to do.

He can’t tell his father, that much is for damn sure.

He’s been doing the little things, slipping holy water and colloidal silver into his father’s rum (and coffee, and bourbon, and coffee again, because maybe it didn’t work last time because he did it wrong?)

John doesn’t notice, because the man sitting across from him at the diner, the man driving one-handed and singing with the radio, the man drugging him unconscious and fucking him into the mattress- it’s _all_ John.

And it’s occurred to Dean, too little too late, that this all started after Sam left.

 

It was hard on both of them, Dean knows that. Maybe something in his father finally snapped. After.

 

After.

 

It’s occurred to him that Sam already knows.

 

He spends August trying to figure out how to ask. He stares at his little brother’s name in his phone, willing himself to press ‘call.’

_Hey Sam_

_I’ve been thinking about how you always wanted to leave_

_I’ve been thinking about how you’ve always hated dad_

_And I was just wondering_

_Did you ever wake up with bruises you didn’t have when you went to bed?_

He dreads the answer, so he doesn’t ask. He snaps his phone shut and throws it into the footwell and stares out the window.

 

He won’t ask for help.

 

In September, Bobby calls them and asks them to go on solo hunts, and John can’t come up with an excuse not to. Dean tries not to act too relieved.

 

His head starts clearing almost as soon as he’s alone.

He’s probably the first person for whom New Orleans has had that effect.

 

On October third, he gets a voicemail from his father. There’s EVP on it.

John stops answering the phone after that.

 

By Halloween, there’s no denying that something’s happened.

He needs to go find his father, and god help him.

He can’t go alone.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm actually really happy with how this turned out. 
> 
> [Based on a kink_mem prompt.](http://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/108669.html?thread=40906621#t40906621)
> 
> I had to ask a [family member](http://mailissa-blog.tumblr.com/post/142539405856/answer-my-texts-dad) for help with this one. Anonymously, of course. 
> 
> He eventually got back to me and said that there was no standard. A small werewolf might have a bite radius similar to, say, LeBron James. So sayeth my pa, and he knows what the fuck's up.


End file.
